He had been so good for me — so sweet and so compliant. There was no resistance. He was overripe and ready — needing only gentle pressure, he yielded at the slightest touch.
He’s lovely that way, when he’s malleable and mine. It’s breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once, and in those moments, I wish I could move him as much as he moves me. I wish I could find some poignant, graceful way to communicate my appreciation, my adoration, and my complete and total pleasure in his mind, his heart, and his body.
After he’s given so freely (after I’ve taken so much,) there’s nothing I want more than to reciprocate, to give him some gift that’s half as beautiful as the one he’s given me.
And so I ask.
The simplicity of the question — “What do you want?”— belies its impetus and its intention. I want to know what he wants because I want him to have it. I want to give it to him. Anything. Everything. All he has to do is say the words.
Sometimes he responds with this or that, but what he wants (what I can give him) never matches the magnitude of my desire to please him even half as much as he pleases me.
But still… I ask, he answers, and I usually comply.
This past weekend, for the first time, his response left me speechless, overwhelmed, and nearly crushed by the weight of his submission.
I asked, gently and sincerely:
“Baby… what do you want? Anything… just tell me.”
And he responded:
“Ma’am… unless I can have three more wishes, I can’t think of anything I want more than what I have right now.”
My heart shattered at the beauty and the sadness of the sentiment, and I couldn’t help but echo his thoughts inside my head: There is nothing more I want than this man, this love, this moment.
All I want is more of what I have, but sadly, we’re running out of wishes.